


Snaps

by Fyre



Series: A Little Kindness [10]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Slow Show - mia_ugly
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Gabriel is a twunt, Missing Scene, Oh look we upped the rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22914364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: “There’ve been some… pictures overnight,” Gabriel said tersely. “Nothing we need to worry about, but it might look bad for the show.”God, Avery was too tired – and possibly a little too tipsy – to be dealing with this. “What kind of pictures?”Gabriel cleared his throat. “One of your co-stars may be going off the rails again.”
Series: A Little Kindness [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628107
Comments: 26
Kudos: 137
Collections: Slow Show Metaverse





	Snaps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mia_ugly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/gifts).



> I don't know why my brain always gives me these things at work. It is like unto an asshole.

He’d finished reading.

Well, re-reading.

Well, re-reading certain scenes.

The scripts were spread across Avery’s dining table in as much disarray as he was himself. He meant to tidy them up, he really did, but his thoughts – his hands – kept getting pulled back to _that_ moment, that episode, that _scene_.

He hadn’t had the nerve to mention it to Crowley yet. Couldn’t face hearing the resounding awful silence again when the poor man realised he was being turned into a sinful temptation. Falling in love sounded… a little better, didn’t it? Something less shallow. Something less…

He flipped through the pages again, trying to resist the urge to dig out something considerably stronger than the whisky in his glass.

His phone buzzed and he groped for it. “Hello?”

“Ah, good, you’re up. Crisis talks.”

Avery pressed his face into his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Gabriel?”

“Well, who else would it be calling you at this time of night?”

It took a moment for his manager’s words to sink in, and when they sank, they went right through him down to the floor.

“What do you mean ‘crisis talks’? Has something happened?” His stomach twisted in a knot. Had Crowley been in touch with his manager about the direction of the character? Was it going to cause problems? Were they about to lose a leading man?

“There’ve been some… pictures overnight,” Gabriel said tersely. “Nothing _we_ need to worry about, but it might look bad for the show.”

God, he was too tired – and possibly a little too tipsy – to be dealing with this. “What kind of pictures?”

Gabriel cleared his throat. “One of your co-stars may be going off the rails again.”

Again.

That could only be one person.

Avery’s world narrowed, going awful and foggy around the edges. He’d spoken to Crowley. He’d spoken to him twice in the past two days. He hadn’t mentioned…

Oh.

No. Wait. He _had_. And Avery had been so caught up in his panic about the bloody scripts, he hadn’t stopped to ask what was going on in London.

“I said he would be a liability,” Gabriel continued, “but they wanted him. Big name, even if he was scraping the barrel.”

“What–” He licked suddenly dry lips. “What’s happened? Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“He figured it was a good time to hit the tiles,” Gabriel replied, disgust evident in his tone. “Dressed like a midlife crisis waiting to happen and picked up some piece of eye-candy in a bar. I swear, it looks like they were about to f–”

“How bad are they?” Avery interrupted sharply, not wanting to hear, not really wanting to know.

“Enough to put the studio on edge. His parents have spoken to the press.”

Oh. Fuck.

“Do– should I say anything?”

“You?” Gabriel actually _laughed_ and it was like nails on a board. “Buddy, what you say right now is irrelevant. The studio are cleaning up this mess. Making sure he’s… well, we don’t wanna have him trashing our set like he did on his last film.”

Avery felt sick to his stomach. “All right. Thank you for letting me know. Have a good night.”

“Av–”

Avery terminated the call and – with stupidly shaking fingers – opened up a browser on his phone. It was the worst kind of masochism, but he couldn’t help tapping in Crowley’s name, searching, waiting and yes, there he was with a man half their age. Handsome. Thick dark waves of hair that begged to be touched. Striking features. _Chiselled,_ for Heaven’s sake.

Mouths on mouths, limbs a tangle. Rash of love bites on the young man’s throat, Crowley’s hand halfway up under the mystery man’s t-shirt, fingers curled. Scratching. And of their own volition, Avery dug his fingers against his own belly, digging through his shirt, imagining those hooked fingers leaving reddened lines on his bland, pale flesh.

No…

No, he couldn’t let his mind wander down those avenues. Not…

Not knowing that Crowley was being raked across the coals. Not knowing they would be grilling him about his conduct. Again. Tugging and ripping and tearing at the pieces of him that he had only just stitched back together. Their piece of meat, ripe for the savaging. Even his own parents speaking out about him.

He dropped the phone with a clatter, pressing his hands to his mouth.

Should he call? See if Crowley was all right? Ask if there was anything he could do? After all, Crowley had tried to tell him what might be coming. Warn him, even. But… but then again, Crowley hadn’t said _anything_ about them when their conversation had drifted away from the scripts and everything.

Maybe he’d changed his mind. Didn’t want to bring up something difficult and messy, when… well, when they both had to deal with the difficult messiness of season 3.

He… he hadn’t backslid, of that Avery was sure. He had seen Crowley drunk and in various states of disarray. That was – the photographs were just that. He was wobbly and handsy, but he didn’t look– but then again, would Avery really have been able to tell if he _was_ high _?_

But no! No! He couldn’t think that, couldn’t doubt that. Crowley had never given any sign that he was about to do anything of the kind. Was it so wrong for him to have a bit of a night out now and then? Let his hair down. Find some… some – Avery’s throat tightened at those images still plastered across the screen of his phone – a distraction. Yes. Young, handsome, fit. Who could blame him for enjoying himself on his break?

It…

They…

A man could only have so much restraint.

He abandoned the scripts, picked up his phone, and retreated to the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him. The curtains were shut. Unnecessary given the proximity of the nearest building, but he’d learned to err on the side of caution.

He scrolled through the pictures – and there were plenty of them – taking in the way Crowley’s mouth slid against the handsome young man’s, the way his hands moved relentless, baring glimpses of skin, the way he bit and licked and _enjoyed_ it. He plastered himself against the man like a shadow, bold and unashamed and flushed with drink and desire. Fuck, he was so very, very beautiful and didn’t give a damn who knew it.

Avery sank back against the headboard of the bed, pulling his feet up onto the mattress. Enlarged one or two of the photographs. Imagined Crowley prowling towards him, much like he… he would in the script. Imagined those slanted lips curling, knowing.

 _All alone in the woods, Priest_?

He was a very hands-on man, Crowley. Always touching, even casually. Hand to the elbow, pat on the back. It wasn’t a stretch to move it a little further. He would crowd him back against… oh, it’s a forest, isn’t it? A tree. Yes, a tree. And then… and then…

His hand shook as he tugged up his shirt, baring a little glimpse of skin, nothing like _that_ man, too soft, too pale, too… much, but he curled his fingers, dragged them, shivered at the thought of longer, bonier hands doing the same. Nails. Scratching hard enough to leave trails, a pleasant shudder running through him.

Looked at the marks on – on the – on that throat, marks put there by Crowley’s sharp mouth, bitten into warm skin and imagined – didn’t have to imagine much, mouth on his throat, biting sucking to bruises, like brands, like burning.

He fumbled, unsteady, with the buttons of his trousers, slipped his fingers inside, stroked and touched and pictured other hands. Hands touching as lips bit and licked. Messy. Demanding. Scratching. Groped with his other hand for the dresser, for the tube, little lube, too cold, but oh, better. Slick and God, he was such a fucking idiot…

A small animal sound ripped from his throat, his cock hot and hard in palm.

Could hear that laughing warm lovely voice in his ear as those hands worked. Closed his eyes, phone and other – those pictures forgotten. Crowley would laugh. Would tease. Would bite and lick and, squeeze, oh just so, mouth on him.

 _Look at the state of you, angel_. Hot against his ear, Crowley plastering himself all over like a cloak, a blanket, warm and enveloping, and covering and claiming. Bites on his neck, red and dark against pale, pale skin and maybe he would–

Avery hissed, pushing his trousers down over his hips, raked his fingers against bare skin, squeezed, his other hand moving faster, urgent…

_C’mon, angel. That’s it. Make a mess of yourself for me. Let me fuck the living daylights out of you._

His hips jerked and he closed his fist, gasping out – not a name, no, not a name, definitely not a name – and spattering the swell of his belly and the ends of his shirt. Heart pounding a rapid beat, chest and belly rising and falling with every ragged breath.

“Shit…” he whispered, opening his hand, staring at it as if it had betrayed him.

Stiffly, he sat up, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirrored doors of the wardrobe. Flushed, disgraceful, scratches on his skin and cum on his shirt. He tore his eyes away, wiping his hands futilely on his shirt. Didn’t help. Didn’t change that he was– that he had–

He groped for his phone and closed down the images.

He’d known the tidal wave was coming. He’d seen the warning signs. He just… he hadn’t… it wasn’t meant to be here. Not yet. Not now. Not like that.

“Shit,” he whispered again in the lonely half-light of his room.


End file.
